


Sunlight Is Like Gold

by shakespearespaz



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Internal Monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:46:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespearespaz/pseuds/shakespearespaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small piece inspired by Rachel twisting her hair in the season two trailer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunlight Is Like Gold

Tight. Tighter. Even tighter.

Release. The softness spirals around her skin. She captures it again. And again and again and again. Release.

The piece is probably curled, greasy, wilting.

And again and again.

And again.

Bass would touch her hair. Brush it away with soft-spoken threats, finger a loose strand, lean too close, collect it in his fist as he—

No. It’s hers. Her knuckles whiten against the gold. It’s hers.

It’s her.

Charlie too. And Danny and big blue eyes in tiny faces pressed close. There’s no more water left, not in this parched land, but Miles had plenty to spare.

Bang.

Randall’s gone. Gone.

Twist.

_One._

Basketball man.

_Two, three, four._

Cannibals.

_Five._

Blank.

Jaffestraussersoldierplainsmansoldieronesoldiertwo careless boy soldiersoldierdansusanjonesirenetheirchildrennora.

The only one she couldn’t kill was herself.

Twist.

Miles was— Miles was— His face isn’t there only, only the edge of knife against skin. She can’t breathe. He couldn’t be. He—  

She drops it.

It isn’t as loud as it should be, against the paper. Dull. Anti-climactic.

The hair is all a mess. She gathers it in all her fingers, weaving and curling and wrapping. Pain. Good. Her eyes water.

Silence rings in her ears.

She remembers swallowed quiet in ancient rooms, with heavy breaths above, connected to sweaty hands, lifting her head, tilting it, wrenching it and it’s back and clumsy hands are at her throat and then collarbone and then lower. They take for themselves. She’s naked before—before the—

She’s exposed.

Her legs kick out. It’s just the kitchen table. She’s—she’s safe. Engulfed by the cool, invasive, greedy light.

The window’s open.

Bass wouldn’t let her open them. Fresh air was a privilege, like toilet paper and underwear and water and life.

Miles gave her dignity and now—

She’s exposed.

No.

His hand cradles her head and hers his and his hand in hers and she in him.

Again and again.

But he won’t. He’ll hold and hold and never twist and somehow it will keep the knives at bay. The ones that slash to mark, to claim, her too skinny frame. Too late, she’s theirs.

Not here. Not here she’s safe.

Assassins among the dust and arrows beyond the leaves and poison in the milk and the shotgun that whispers from the wall.

They are looking for the girl with the golden hair and the giant brain.

He is solid. Repose.

Release.

No.

_Twist._

I belong to me. I belong to me.


End file.
